by James Nally
Right on, right on, I manage to stop myself singing as I jump into my car and grab the seat belt.
‘Just drive,’ he snaps.
‘Sir, I can’t turn here …’
‘Reverse for Christ’s sake.’
Every male cop on the planet thinks he’s Damon Hill. Some, like Crossley, even own special leather gloves for the task which, when they’re not driving, they dangle on their belts like spare penises. Alas, I’m less Damon Hill, more Benny, especially going backwards.
‘Swap!’ cries Crossley and I’m out of that driver’s seat before he’s spat the ‘p’.
Crossley throws himself in, flings one elbow over my passenger seat. Palm-steering, he roars off backwards, beaching my poor car into every coccyx-crunching pothole along the way. My anger rises in tandem with my rev counter.
Over mashing metal and screaming suspensions, I shout: ‘Why are you pissed off with me? You specifically said no heroics.’
‘And I specifically instructed you, over and over, that you have a surveillance team in front and behind you that needs to know his every instruction.’
I don’t get it but why distract him now, when we’re careering backwards towards a brick wall in my beloved old banger? After a totally unnecessary handbrake turn, I’m tempted to request his insurance details. Instead, under orders, I perform a walk-through of the drop. I show him the stencilled message and the sensor on the bridge, which he goes over to inspect.
‘Sensor?’ he scoffs. ‘It’s a concrete block painted silver.’
‘Yeah, well I can see that now sir, with the headlights shining directly on it. They weren’t when I was last here.’
We find a way down to the disused railway line where, mercifully, at least the pulley-driven wooden tray and scooter tyre marks are real. Overhead, cars pull up, resigned. Scapegoat grumblings. Yes, he’s vanished into that great black rural night, but I did everything I’d been told to do.
I follow Crossley back up to the bridge, where they turn to face us as one.
‘He’s long gone,’ spits DI Peter Mann, his eyes not leaving Crossley’s. ‘We should’ve put one of us up front as soon as we got out here,’ he rants. ‘It’s pitch bloody black. Kipper was never going to identify the delivery man.’
‘We didn’t know that,’ says Crossley, firmly. ‘We didn’t know a lot of things, Pete. Like the fact he’d take us somewhere our radio signals don’t work.’
DI Mann switches his glare to me, full-beam. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you run back to your rear surveillance team? You could’ve shouted at them, they were that close.’
‘We were 100 yards behind you,’ chimes in a moustachioed man I’ve never clapped eyes on before. ‘You’re supposed to brief us after every instruction. You could’ve walked to our car. What were you thinking?’
My brain’s flailing. The radios were down. I didn’t know how close the rear surveillance officers were. I couldn’t see them. Anyway, what could they have done? Any attempt to pursue the suspect would’ve put Julie’s life in danger. That was the deal, right?
DI Mann’s head wobbles in contempt. ‘Your fuck-up has cost us vital minutes. You’d best hope it hasn’t cost Julie Draper her life.’
Involuntarily, my eyes clench shut. Please, please no. What have I done?
Crossley dry-coughs back control. ‘Let’s save the post-mortem for tomorrow,’ he snaps, checking his watch. ‘If you’re quick, the Lamb in Pyecombe should still be open. Go get a drink and calm down. I’ll wait here for forensics.’
Off they shuffle, muttering bitterly. I’ve never needed a pint so badly in my life, even if I have to toothlessly slurp it off the lino once they’re done kicking the shit out of me, so I follow at a distance.
DI Mann spins around: ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
I slouch back to Crossley.
‘Don’t bother coming in for a couple of days Lynch, give me a chance to sort out this mess …’
‘Hands up, Guv, I forgot about the vehicle behind me. But what would my alerting them have achieved? Their radios weren’t working either. And it’s not like they could risk chasing him.’
He rubs his face vigorously with his open palms, as if clearing it of live scorpions.
He sighs hard: ‘I thought I’d spelled it out to you.’
His hands drop and his eyes look up to the heavens.
‘All that space-age tech up there, and I’ve got the village idiot down here.’
‘Now hang on just a minute there, Guv …’
‘I told you about your number one priority, Lynch, keeping your surveillance teams informed of each fresh instruction. Above us is a chopper with state-of-the-art thermal imaging, infra-red, you name it. Seventy-five grand to scramble. Ten grand an hour to fly.’ He turns to me. ‘I redirected the lead surveillance team but the rear one was still behind you and in direct contact with that chopper via satellite phone. I told you they were constantly in touch. I told you, if nothing else, make sure your surveillance teams are privy to his latest instructions.’
‘But my radio went down.’
‘Had you gone to the rear surveillance team, on foot, that chopper would now be covertly following whoever picked up the money, and only we would know. Instead, we’ve lost the money and we’ve lost him.’
An icy snake of terror unfurls inside me. ‘Shit. What have I done.’
‘I tell you what you’ve done,’ snaps Crossley, voice cracking, eyebrows arched to breaking. ‘Whoever kidnapped Julie has got his money, so he has no further use for her now. He can’t risk freeing her because of what she might be able to tell us about him.’
His upper lip stiffens, reining in his swelling emotions.
‘He has to kill Julie now,’ he states flatly, as if passing sentence himself.
Chapter 4
Green Lanes, North London
Thursday, June 16, 1994; 02.30
Had the shonky Shiraz bottles I’d unearthed from some dodgy all-night spieler in Haringey not required two fully engaged man-arms to uncork against a solid surface, I’d never have spotted Zoe’s note on our kitchen table.
Written at some point yesterday, it reads: Me and Matt gone to mum’s. Thought you could use a night off, Zoe x
What a selfless, thoughtful act, you may think. But you don’t know a sleep-deprived mum. And you aren’t competing in the Martyred Parent Olympics (so-called because it lasts four years and, unless you imbibe massive quantities of illicit pharmaceuticals, you’ve no chance of winning).
What the note really means is: ‘It doesn’t matter how late you’ve been working, this is going down officially as a night off for you.’ I’ll be made to pay, of course; she’ll yawn pointedly all day tomorrow, slam anything slam-able and consistently ring friends and family to update them about the latest phase of her toootal exhaaaaustion.
Aged twenty-two months, Matt still wakes five or six times a night – every night. Having an insomniac stepdad helps. I’m always on hand to slurp drinks, binge Babybels and loop Pingu. Thrillingly, at least for me, Matt’s taken to calling my name when he wakes, or at least his version of Donal. ‘Dong, Dong, Dong,’ he chants. Who he doesn’t call for is mum, because mum minus sleep equals Crazed Harridan.
I’m ‘Dong’ because Matt isn’t my biological son. His ‘real’ dad, Chris, is a fugitive from fatherhood somewhere south of the Equator. A posh, feckless surfer-raver type, he fled as soon as Zoe fell pregnant – leaving the way free for my uncharacteristic crime scene seduction.
Yes, we met over a dead body! Zoe is a rising star in forensics who, somehow, failed to spot the clues to my myriad flaws. She agreed to go out with me, and it soon became clear why; her morale had hit rock bottom. She’d convinced herself that ‘no man would want me, not now I come with a baby.’
I wanted her with all that I had. When I got to know Matt, I wanted him too. For the first time in my life, ever, I let instinct override indecision, seized the moment, got the girl! A few months later, we bought this place
and I’m still in utter shock, clinging onto the cliff-face of overnight fatherhood. But I wouldn’t change a thing.
Being a dad is quite a responsibility, and not one I’m taking lightly. Not only have I reduced my nightly quaffing to two bottles of Shiraz, I only buy the stuff that’s less than 14% proof. Well you do anything for your kids, don’t you? And Matt’s my son now.
A few weeks back, Zoe caught us partying at 3am and announced her ‘gravest fear’ – that Matt has inherited my insomnia. I had to remind her that this is impossible – we’re not flesh and blood – then hated her for appearing so patently relieved. I let it go because we never row in front of Matt, which means we never row. She seems to spend every second of her child-free leisure time avoiding me. Seriously, she’s either out with her girlfriends, at her mum’s or collapsed like a capsized Alp in bed, clad in those massive off-white ‘comfort’ knickers, previously used to hoist the Mary Rose.
I know we’ll get back to how it was. Of course we will. Once we get over the exhaustion. And the constant illness. And the lack of money.
No wonder Crossley’s call last week had come as such a shot in the arm. How I’d craved the chance to get drafted onto a ‘live’ investigation squad, make a good impression, become a fully-fledged detective constable and prove all my doubters wrong.
All I had to do was not fuck up …
What a selfish prick, I scold myself. The only thing that matters right now, after my potentially fatal blunder, is that Julie’s okay. My insides wince, cowering from those stabs of raw, primeval terror. My stressed temples buzz, as if planted against the window of a speeding train. A low electric hum grows louder in my ears, until it whines like the world’s largest mosquito. My vision flickers, causing objects in the room to float in different directions, as if something telepathic is breaking through.
My God, Julie?
Somewhere close by, a church bell clangs, over and over, louder and louder. I can see it’s driving those ravens wild. They smash into the sitting room window – thump, thump, thump – flinging themselves against the glass with all of their might.
They’re inside now, flapping close to my face. I can’t scream or turn away or raise my hands. I can’t move a muscle! All I can do is scan their beady green eyes. I remember suddenly their collective term: An Unkindness of Ravens. And this lot look especially unkind. One launches, pecking at my face savagely. The others join in; a greedy, feeding frenzy. I scream as they pick and pull and gouge at my eyes until all goes black.
I’m suspended in the air now, looking down. The ravens are yanking off bits of Julie’s face and body, then flying off, tiny fish flapping in their mouths. I’m holding a metal crook. I should be beating the birds away. But I don’t.
I’m lying down again. Julie appears above me, eyes wild with hate, face tattered and torn like bloodied tissue paper. She holds the silver block directly over my face, but I see another man’s bearded face in the reflection. Who is he? Please don’t drop it, I beg her. Please.
The reflection in the block is me. I smile just as the head of an axe plants itself into the left side of my face, slicing into my cheekbone, above my ear. Indescribable, ringing pain springs me to my feet. I’m screaming, clawing at the axe. But it’s not there.
‘Oh my God,’ I hear myself scream. ‘Julie Draper’s dead.’
Chapter 5
Green Lanes, North London
Thursday, June 16, 1994; 11.00
‘Morning has fucking broken,’ warbles Fintan, my older brother, yanking open the sitting room curtains. Why did I ever give him a key?
I scrunch my dry eyes against the searing white, but the glare scores my sight, summoning splodges and a pulsing star-scape. My day of destiny is here. No doubt Commander Crossley’s already in his office, knotting the rope and oiling the trapdoor. Well someone will have to pay for last night’s cock-up. I’m low-ranking police plankton with an already sullied disciplinary record; he couldn’t have hand-picked a more ideal scapegoat.
I suspect Fintan has already heard all about last night from his fathomless pool of ‘police contacts’. That’s why he’s here, the diabolical cock, to get the inside story. It’s this level of conscience-free cunning that has propelled him to the role of chief crime reporter at the Sunday News, the youngest in their history.
‘Why can’t you warn me before you turn up,’ I croak. ‘You know, like a normal person?’
‘You could’ve done with some of that last night,’ he beams, eyes alive with mischief. ‘Warning, I mean.’
I groan instant and complete surrender, but my own personal Josef Mengele hasn’t even got started.
‘I hear you literally presented the cash to him, on a tray, like some silver-service waiter,’ he mocks in fake shock, shaking his head out of the sheer orgasmic schadenfreude of it all.
‘You’ve taken such a keen interest in this case, Fintan. Especially since they imposed a media blackout.’
‘Good job you’ve got that to hide behind. I can see the headline now: “Bungling cops lose man, money and poor Julie”. There’d be an outcry.’
‘You and your journo pals would whip up an outcry, you mean. Who uses words like ‘bungling’ in real life anyway?’
He’s off on one of his streams-of-tabloid-consciousness. ‘We’d have to describe Julie as “pretty” of course, which is a bit of a stretch, wouldn’t you say, Donal? She reminds me of Linda McCartney, if she hadn’t married a Beatle or given up the sausages. But we can’t call her “lumpen and pasty”, can we? She is the victim, after all. I tell you what though, photos of her make me want to stand on my head while chewing a sack of raw vegetables …’
‘Jesus, Fintan! Have some respect …’ I stop myself, but not quickly enough for old Donkey Ears.
‘You were gonna say “for the dead”, weren’t you?’ he says, turning towards me, nostrils almost winking. ‘What do you know? Have they found her body?’
‘No. I mean we don’t even know she’s dead. I’m just assuming the worst, now he’s had his money. What use is she to him now?’
My voice cracks, straining to contain that geyser of inner terror. What if my stupidity last night led to Julie’s murder? How am I supposed to cope with that? Live with that? I screw the lid down tighter. I know she’s dead because she came to me last night. That’s how this cursed bloody condition works. But I don’t know how or when she died. There’s still a chance he killed her before the ransom drop. That would mean her death is not my fault. It makes no sense at all but, for now, I’ve got to cling to that flimsy hope …
I scold my emotions for running ahead of the facts. All I know for sure is I must have got close to her dead body at some point either before, during or after last night’s ransom drop. That’s the only time the dead play their games with me … when I’ve been physically close to their recently slain cadavers. Poor, poor Julie …
Fintan recognises my pain and changes tack. ‘I heard you got a lot of stick. Don’t feel bad. Crossley should never have put you in that situation, not with your lack of experience.’
‘Gee thanks, Fint, for such a typically back-handed show of, er, support.’
‘It’s not just your fault, Donal. The kidnapper outsmarted you all.’
‘The worst thing is, Crossley just stood there and let them slag me off. After I’d risked my neck for him. Then he told me not to bother turning up for work until he tells me otherwise.’
‘That’s the British upper classes for you, Donal. They see the rest of us as grateful Sherpas, bred to do the heavy lifting that carries them to glory. Now hose yourself down or something so I can take you out in public. Then I’m going to make you eat a solid before flies start circling your eyes.’
‘Don’t spend the day trying to wheedle info out of me, Fintan.’
‘You affront me, Donal. You really do. I come here to offer nothing more than comfort and cheer after your latest dismal and abject humiliation, and this is the thanks I get. Why do you always assume there’s an ang
le? Jeez. I’ll be outside having a fag.’
With Fintan, there is always an angle. Having arrived here in London from the Irish Midlands a few years before me, he sees himself as my protector, especially now Mam is dead. But Fintan is always a journalist first, my brother second and would sell my arse for a scoop without even realising he’s done wrong. Zoe thinks he’s warped, manipulative and amoral, which, most of the time, is hard to dispute.
I shower, dress and catch up with him at the garden gate, where he wheels around theatrically to present a sporty black Porsche convertible, roof down.
‘Where in the name of God did you get that?’
‘There’s a new rich kid on trial on the showbiz desk, son of an earl or a duke or something. Nice enough fella, but thick as pig shit, of course, and hopeless. But the editor thinks he’ll get us into places we’ve never managed to penetrate before, and he’s usually right about these things.
‘Anyway, young Jamie Benson-Smythe finds it all frightfully exciting, especially crime and investigations. The fucker had the gall to march over and announce that he plans to get my job! Any other newbie would be thrown out on his ear for a stunt like that, but not Jamie.’
I’ve had my fair share of toffs at work and nod. ‘They just have this unshakeable self-belief.’
‘Wouldn’t we all, if we never had to worry about paying the rent? Anyway, I don’t blame them for making the most of their advantages. What really bugs me is the way the English middle classes unquestioningly defer to them, bowing and fucking scraping. It makes me almost like the French.
‘So, yesterday morning, I bump into the jumped-up little fucker while he’s parking this up at work. I tell him I need a smart motor for a big undercover job, and he just hands me the keys.’
‘Poor guy. You commandeered his car.’
‘Hey, Jamie’s thrilled, feels like he’s already contributing,’ says Fintan, getting into the driver’s seat.
‘What if it rains?’
‘What if it rains?’ he whines, mimicking me. ‘We put up the bloody roof.’